


Break Me

by cheshirecat101



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Control, Dom Will, Dom/sub, Dominance, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Jealousy, Kneeling, M/M, POV Second Person, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Punishment, Rough Kissing, Sub Hannibal, Submission, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3123677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s the little touches that remind you who you belong to. A stroke of your hair here, a brush of fingertips against the back of your neck there, a hand on your waist as he passes by you."</p>
<p>Hannibal discovers that Will is the Dom he's always been looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Me

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I decided to take a break from A to write this because the idea wouldn't leave me alone. I hardly ever see Dom!Will and Sub!Hannibal fics, and the dynamic really interests me, so I wanted to write this. I think it turned out well, even with the weird POV, but let me know what you think!

It’s the little touches that remind you who you belong to. A stroke of your hair here, a brush of fingertips against the back of your neck there, a hand on your waist as he passes by you. He never used to touch you first. He never initiated, never started the contact, never reached out for you. You had to do all the work, had to touch him first, small things in the beginning, a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the back, until you could graduate, move up to gently cupping his face in your hand, stroking your thumb over his cheek. The kind of touches that you want to give him, though if given the chance, you would get even more intimate, feel him from the inside out. Eventually, you’ll be able to, but at first it isn’t an option, and you have to be satisfied with little touches. Encouraging him to come out of his shell, be comfortable with you. You don’t realize that he’s always been out, been waiting for you to try to lure him in so he can pull you in on the line instead, drown you in the icy waters of un-reciprocation. You don’t realize that he’ll be your destruction, and that you’ll enjoy every second of it. You don’t know.

He’s angry today. You can tell by the tense set of his shoulders, the way he sweeps into your kitchen, discarding his coat as he goes and carelessly tossing it over a chair, your hand twitching to hang it up, but right now you don’t dare move. Because you know exactly why he’s angry, and know that you’re the cause. Last time you saw him you directly disobeyed him, refused to give him an apology for something neither of you even remembers anymore, and he didn’t have the time or opportunity to discipline you properly. So you set up an appointment with him. A lunch, where the two of you can be alone and you can be properly punished. Excitement floods your stomach at the thought, along with a nervous sort of anticipation because you have no idea what he’s going to do to you and you love it. You love the thrill of not knowing what’s coming next, of not knowing what exactly he’s going to do to you.

It’s not just about a loss of control for you, though that is important. You want to relinquish your careful, always tightly wound control, hand over the reins to someone else and let them direct you. But it’s not just that. You also like being praised, rewarded and stroked gently like a good pet because of how you feel about him. How deeply he’s embedded in your skin. And of course, you love the punishments. Partially because you like to be punished, but also because you enjoy seeing how it feeds into that little dark side of his that you’re steadily trying to nurse into something larger, stronger. Healthy, and full. You want all of these things, and at first you didn’t realize that he could give them all to you. You thought you would have to take on his role, as you had so many times before, a role you didn’t mind. But he surprised you, and turned out to be different than you thought. He’s full of surprises, isn’t he?

You don’t say anything in greeting, letting him stand in the kitchen for a minute, fuming, refusing to even look at you. You’re used to that, though, he doesn’t like eye contact and avoids it at all available opportunities. Considering you’re his to do with as he pleases, that’s an easy thing to do, as you avoid his gaze as well. Subservience, always subservience unless he asks otherwise, and especially now.

“Knees,” he says, voice short, clipped, and in a second you are on your knees in front of him, spine straight, posture perfect, forgetting about the fact that you’re getting expensive fabric dirty against the floor of your kitchen because that’s not important right now. Only he is. Isn’t that always the way, though?  That’s something else you didn’t realize when you first met him; just how important he was going to be in your life. How special he is.

You look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak again, to deliver your sentence. You’ve prepared yourself for this, for whatever may come, and having tested his limits before, you know the approximate severity of the punishment that will be inflicted upon you. It’s only a question of what exact punishment that will be, though you have any number of ideas. You’re almost as creative as him, nearly as devious, but the empathy lends him the extra edge he needs, the unlimited power of his unfathomable imagination. You’ve been exploring the depths of it for weeks now, ever since he was released from prison and this relationship between you started. And thank god that it did.

“Kneel on your hands,” he says, and you automatically adjust your position, knowing this is going to hurt. “Do you know what you did?” The question is spoken with a calm fury, a quietly controlled rage that you can hear underneath the surface of his voice. It causes anticipation to tingle down your spine, and you nod, averting your eyes from his as he finally makes eye contact. Those blue eyes are a raging sea at the moment, an ocean in a storm of anger, and you’ve never been more aroused in your life. There’s something indescribably appealing about his anger, that rare darkness showing through that’s been growing steadily bigger and bigger with each passing day since he got out of prison. You continue to feed it, ask him questions about how he would kill you because is there anything better than the thought of being completely at his mercy? You have been before, had his hand wrapped around your throat, applying gentle pressure until you’re cut off completely, unable to breathe and simply looking up at him, wondering if this is when you finally die. To die at his hands would be a gift, a blessing. A benediction.

You love him. He doesn’t love you, but that’s alright. You never expected him to, could only hope that at some point he would return your feelings, but you never truly expected him to. The two of you are made for each other, but he doesn’t see it the same way that you do. At the very least, he’s sexually attracted to you, though you’ve never consummated that particular side of the relationship. It hasn’t progressed far enough yet.

He knows you love him. It’s obvious in his actions, the cold way that he treats you, as if making sure that you understand that the affection he gives you is empty, just rewards for your actions, your good behavior. There’s nothing behind it, no secret feelings that he’s hiding from you, as much as you wish there was. You’re alright, though, with him not loving you. Because even if he doesn’t, the relationship between you is so close, so intimate, that it feels like he does. You’ve never been closer to him than you are now, and he does sometimes appear possessive in his behaviors towards you. That’s only because you’re his, body, soul, and heart, and he knows it, but you can pretend. Usually you try to be honest with yourself, but this is one instance where it doesn’t hurt to lie. You belong to him. Someday he will belong to you.

“Yes sir,” you reply, your voice even, calm as usual. As if you aren’t affected at all by the fire in his eyes, aren’t waiting with equal parts excitement and anticipation for your punishment, whatever it is he chooses to do to you. You’re ready for all of it, ready and willing, and actually slightly impatient. You want to get to the part where you’re stroked and rewarded again, in his good graces, where he gives you that little smile, the secret one like it’s only the two of you left in the world and he’s happier that way. It’s the smile that you treasure more than anything, and he gives it so rarely. It is a gift to be cherished.

“Good. Are you ready to apologize?”

You take a moment to sum up your words, not daring to take any longer before you speak. “I’m incredibly sorry for what happened the other day. I directly disobeyed you, and worse, disrespected you. I regret my actions and wish to make it up to you any way that I can,” you say carefully, keeping your tone as respectful as possible to appeal to him. To lessen the blow, if you can, though you doubt it. He is changed after his time in prison, seems to have adapted not to need mercy. Unless he’s always been like this and just hid it well until now. That’s a possibility, considering he’s showing sides of himself now that you always knew were there, were always just carefully hidden. He’s tried to keep so many things hidden from you, but not anymore. Now you’re both honest with each other, and it’s better this way. It makes it feel like there are fewer barriers between you.

He nods, beginning to pace in a circle around you, putting a hand down to your hair. He strokes it at first, hand moving far too gently, softly, in just the way you like it, moving with expert precision to touch you exactly how he knows you like it. A moment later, however, his hand knots in your hair and he drags you up to your feet, bringing you over to the table and forcing you into a seat at the head of it.

“Stay,” he commands in that easy way of his, as effortlessly as breathing. From the outside looking in, no one would ever suspect that he’s the one giving the commands. He’s always seen taking orders, bending to everyone else’s will and giving in. Wasn’t that always the way with Jack? Didn’t he always give up, give in? But not with you. Oh, not with you, not since he came back. Not after what you did to him.

He moves away and you don’t move an inch, don’t even turn your head to see where he’s going. You don’t dare, not with the mood he’s in. He’s liable to explode at any moment, something you haven’t fully seen him do yet, and you’re curious as to what that’s like. What would happen if he truly unleashed all the anger he feels towards you. He’s admitted to wanting to kill you before, with his bare hands, and it was hard not to offer yourself to him then and there, beg him to have you over that desk, twice. No, you can’t rush that aspect of your relationship, it needs to come naturally, slowly. In its own time. You’re sure that you’ll get there eventually.

A minute later, he returns with two bowls in hand, one empty and the other containing a pile of rice. He sets them both down in front of you, his hand going to your shoulder with a firm grip, not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough that you know not to look up at him.   
“You’re going to count these grains of rice. And in between every grain of rice, you’re going to say, ‘thank you sir’. Every single one. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” you say immediately, locked and loaded and eager to please. Of course you are. You’re ready for this, and honestly, it’s much milder compared to other punishments he could have given you, even though your hands ache from kneeling on them before and your fingers are shaking. You fumble initially when you try to pick up your first grain of rice, fingers numb, trembling, weak, but manage after a moment. “One. Thank you sir,” you say, placing it in the empty bowl. “Two, thank you sir.”

You continue, slowly counting and thanking him between every count, moving as quickly as you can without messing it up somehow. When you get to one hundred, he stops you with a squeeze to your shoulder, your voice dying in your throat immediately. “That’s good enough, I think,” he says, taking the bowls away again. Hopefully he discards the rice you’ve touched in the trash rather than putting it back in the container, but perhaps that’s part of your punishment as well. He knows how particular you are, how you like to have things under your control, and quite often his punishments involve taking away that control from you, or messing up your careful life in small, vindictive ways. His reckoning, as it is. He knows it will bother you, not knowing where he put the rice, and you’ll probably end up throwing out the entire container out of paranoia. Reckoning indeed.

In a minute, he is by your side again and you long to reach out, to touch him, to simply hold him in your arms for as long as you can. But now is not the time for that. Right now, you are in your roles, the both of you, playing the parts you agreed to play. Other times, when you are not in the middle of the act, you can touch him freely, he will allow you, won’t fight against it despite the fact that he’s not entirely fond of contact. At the same time he’s starving for affection, attention, your little paradox wrapped up in an enigma. He will never admit to liking affection from you, but he allows it all the same, rather than pulling away.

But now is not the time. Now is the time for you to say, “Thank you, sir,” continuing to avoid his eyes, and his turn to smile, a little smirk of a thing claiming his lips. Your gaze naturally settles on his lips anyway, desiring a kiss that he’s never given you and that you’re sure will eventually come, once he decides you’re both ready. You don’t realize how soon that will be.

He whistles, once, and you stand, waiting for further instructions as you gaze patiently at his lips rather than making eye contact with him. The waiting is always the hardest part, more difficult than actually going through your punishments, though you flex your hands now while you have the chance, trying to regain some more feeling. He doesn’t stop you from doing it so you assume that it’s okay, and continue until you can feel your fingers completely again. He knows that you hate waiting and so always does it on purpose, leaving you waiting with anticipation for what’s next because you know that this was only the start. You risk a glance up from his lips and see that he’s clearly thinking, the wheels turning visibly in his head in that adorably obvious way he has sometimes.

His eyes go to yours for a brief second, a light smile touching his lips before he says, tone completely serious, “Lead me to the bedroom.”

Excitement starts in your stomach and works its way to your brain, sparking something in it as your pulse increases. Judging by his smirk your pupils have dilated, a natural reaction to the situation considering how long you’ve been waiting for this, since the very first time you met him. The attraction was instantaneous, the chemistry between you obvious, heavy to the point of almost being oppressive. At least to him; to you it was always a boon, a blessing, a benediction. Something to treasure and nurture, not something to resist and rebel against, defy, something that nearly repulses you because it gives you a compulsion you don’t want to feel. That’s how he has always felt about it, you know that, knew from day one that he was going to be reluctant to be with you in any capacity, and certainly in the way that you want. He’s definitely not ready for that. First comes submission, then comes sex, then comes romance and love. It’s that simple, at least in your mind. Everything will come in time.

“Of course,” you say, leaving off the ‘sir’ on purpose to see what he’ll do, and he tugs your hair before letting you go, letting you lead the way to one of the rooms that you’ve never been in together despite your desire to take him there. The overwhelming desire to have or be had in that bed by him, whichever he preferred because you don’t really care either way. There are advantages to both.

You lead the way up the stairs with him only a step behind, able to feel his presence directly behind you. His warmth, his solid, somewhat muscular frame. You long to turn around and reach out, touch him, have him pin you to the wall, but you resist, simply leading the way into the bedroom, stepping aside and waiting until he is in to close the door. Your bedroom is clean, and neat, and quietly luxurious in a way that shows off your wealth without being ostentatious. You find it to be perfect, and yet you find yourself wondering what he thinks about it. If he likes it, or if he scoffs at the opulence he sees, so far removed from his flannel and tiny little house and furniture covered in dog hair. You sneak a glance at his face to see, just to gauge his feelings, but he is calm, placid, even, giving you no discernable reaction.

“Bed.” The word is spoken calmly, with little to no inflection in his voice, just a short command, no need for any extraneous words. Anticipation is rising but you stifle it back down as you walk to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. After all, you have no idea where this is going, what he has in store for you, what his plan is. So the anticipation could all be for naught, and it’s better not to get your hopes up. Keep yourself even, calm, as you usually are.

You sit, and wait. And wait. And wait. He’s doing it again, preying on your impatience, your eagerness to see what’s next and get to the main event. You are nearly tingling with eagerness, impatience, and you know that he can see it, that he’s waiting for it to reach its peak before acting. Finally, he comes over to you, stopping in front of you, and bending down to press his lips against yours in the first kiss that you’ve shared.

Is this supposed to be a punishment? Because it feels like a reward. Something saved for good behavior, for cooperation on your part, and you wonder what he has in store. The kiss starts off slow, even, chaste, but quickly devolves from there, moving into something deeper, heated, filthy and wet and wonderful. He’s nipping hard at your lips and exploring your mouth with his tongue and you get so lost in it that you forget to be afraid of what’s coming next. You press back into it with eagerness, fighting him a bit with your lips, and he smiles into the kiss and draws blood with his next bite. Rough treatment, just like you like, and you can’t get enough of it.

All of a sudden, however, and far too soon, he’s pulling away, and you are left gasping for air, breathing heavy as you look up at him with adoration in your eyes. He smirks at that, stroking a hand down your cheek, before his expression changes and he solidly slaps you, expert precision making sure that while your cheek will be red for a while, it won’t leave any other discernable mark. You keep your head turned to the side in deference, unsure of where the hit came from until he says, “I know about the relationship between you and Alana.”

Is that…jealousy in his voice? It is, you know the sound well, have heard it in your own voice in regards to him before. But the question is it jealousy because of you, or because of Alana? After all, he used to have feelings for her, and you’re unsure of whether he still does or not. But you like to think that he’s jealous because Alana has you, and not the other way around. Another little lie you tell yourself, something to keep yourself going, hopeful, soldiering on in this relationship with the knowledge that eventually, you will get what you want. You have to keep telling yourself that this investment will pay off, or there’s no point in investing in the first place. But there is, to you, at least.

“What of it?” you dare to ask, curious as to what he’s thinking, who he’s jealous of and what this means for your relationship.

He doesn’t answer, leaning in to kiss you again, and all the words and thoughts in your brain flee at once, leaving you focused on the sensation of the kiss, on the feeling of his lips against yours in the sweetest of ways, the way you’ve longed for for so long. He’s finally giving you what you want, and if you weren’t so lost you’d wonder why. Jealousy, perhaps? Oh, you can only hope.

“Strip,” he says when he pulls away, taking a step back from you. You stand and do as he says, moving slowly, giving him a bit of a show. You’re proud of your body, have kept it in good shape throughout the years, and want to show him all that he’ll be getting. If this is where this is leading.

Finished, you stand nude in front of him, baring yourself to him while he remains fully clothed. You don’t feel any sense of shame, or modesty, and never have. A body is a body, there is nothing inherently sexual in it unless you make it that way. And currently, things seem to be heading in that direction, and arousal is already stirring in your gut, a kiss from him all it takes to get you going because the attraction between you is undeniable, electric. Strong enough to hurt, sometimes.

“Lie down,” he says, approaching you again, and you obey quickly, watching as he removes a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. In a moment those handcuffs are on your wrists, cuffing you to the bed, and you test them to make sure there’s no give. No, these are not trick handcuffs, they’re rather solid and rather real, and you find your excitement increasing, arousal beginning to show in a tangible way. He knows, of course he knows, but his face is expressionless as he approaches, climbing onto the bed to straddle your legs, still fully clothed.

“What would you like me to do to you, Dr. Lecter? Would you like me to fuck you, take you in this bed until you’re screaming for mercy?” His tone is just barely mocking, he knows exactly what you want but is demanding an answer anyway.

You lick your lips on instinct before opening your mouth to speak, saying, “Yes sir.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to take me in this bed. I want you to hurt me, and have me. I want to have and be had by you.” You want it more than anything, can’t believe that it might be a possibility. That he might give you what you’ve been waiting for for so long, what you’ve been craving since you first met him. It’s so close that you can taste it, and you have to swallow down your eagerness, hold it all deep inside, as much as it makes you want to beg for him.

“Hmm.” He hums contemplatively, trailing his hand down your chest to your arousal, letting it linger a moment, fingertips barely brushing against you, driving you just a little bit insane. But isn’t that always his way. Abruptly, he pulls away entirely, climbing off of you and heading to your pile of clothes. He picks up your cellphone from your pocket and puts it in your hand, giving you a smile that’s completely genuine and slightly patronizing before he starts heading for the door.

“Call Alana to get you out of here, you can explain to her why you’re in that position,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving you naked and chained to the bed. His revenge, you suppose. The humiliation will be your punishment for your relationship with Alana, a relationship that will end after this incident. Finally, you and he are making steps towards being together. In the end, you know that you will have him, as you’ve always wanted. And until then, you’ll simply love him from afar and submit to him in the way that you crave. And once again, he’ll leave you waiting, knowing you hate it. But that doesn’t matter. Because you will always wait for him, because you will always love him. Always.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  


End file.
